Brotherly (NOT-Caring) Love
by KilianaFelagund
Summary: Sherlock gets hurt when playing and Mycroft fixes him up (not that he cares or anything, Sherlock bleeding is such an inconvenience and must be fixed) and John Watson later gets an insight into Sherlock's childhood compliments of the talkative Mrs. Holmes. We all love our favorite sociopaths as children. Sherlock!whump, caring!Mycroft, Kidlock ONE-SHOT (Sherlock Mycroft John Mary)


**Sherlock and all the characters from his show do not belong to me, I am simply borrowing them for a while.**

**I've done some more work on it since I posted it so this is the new and improved version.**

* * *

Mycroft frowned but didn't look up from the book he was reading. He had certainly heard the almost soundless steps that had stopped in his door way but he wasn't about to put down Einstein and look up at his annoying little brother. Only Sherlock walked so quietly around the house. Then he paused. Something had sounded off, the steps had been uneven.

"Sherlock." His voice was deadpan as he kept his eyes on his book. "What did you do to your left foot?"

He wasn't answered right away; rather the small voice sniffled in a most un-Sherlock manner. "I cut it on da fountain." Sherlock's voice was as deadpan as his brothers but for the tell-tail hitch of someone trying not to cry.

That was when Mycroft looked up. When he did so his frown deepened as did his worry. There stood his scrawny little brother, well, not exactly scrawny though he was as thin and delicate looking as a pixie, and much too small for his six years of age. His soft brown hair curled in messy limp locks around his dirty almost sickly pale face. A trickle of blood had dried on his chin from his split lip and his skinned up hands were clutching helplessly to the door-frame and he balanced on one foot. Two steady aquamarine eyes bored into Mycroft filled with pain and fear.

"Hurts, Mycroft." He muttered under his breath, still waiting while Mycroft quickly studied him.

Mycroft settled his lips in a straight line and rolled off his bed. "Well, come here then." He snapped in an almost gentle manner.

Sherlock hurriedly limped to the elder's side and scrambled up into his arms. They made their way down to the kitchen like that. With every step Mycroft clutched Sherlock closer as he passed bloody footprint after bloody footprint. Sherlock sat ramrod straight. His hands twisted around Mycroft's neck but his body refusing to mold into his brother's. Mycroft was also ramrod straight, but more out of anger towards the offending fountain, then his regular coldness.

"It'll need stitches." He explained a few minutes later. He had settled his brother on the counter by the sink and washed out the cut. Sherlock hadn't flinched although his face had become even paler (if possible). Mycroft was surprised (though he didn't show it). At age four, Sherlock had learned to control himself well enough to handle most painful experiences in silence. Right now Mycroft could feel him struggling to keep it inside, he was shaking slightly and his hands were clinched against his side. Still it was impressive.

"Do you want me to call mummy and have her take you to the emergency room or would you like me to do it?" Mycroft asked. He was seventeen but he had read dozens of books on medical emergencies and had watched a YouTube video on how to tie stitches. He was fairly certain he could do it.

"I want you to." Sherlock answered. His quivering voice was hardly more than a whisper.

Mycroft slid him off the counter and into his arms without further comment and carried him back to his room. They settled on Mycroft's bed. Sherlock was face down snuggled into the covers and pillows while Mycroft was sitting on the end with Sherlock's bare foot in his hands. The gash ran from the heel to the middle of the ball of his foot. It was deep and still was oozing blood rather quickly. Beside him he was a small kit with a needle and some waxed medical thread in it.

"Sherlock," He said in his usual monotone. "This will hurt."

Sherlock didn't answer, he just clutched the pillow tighter and nodded weakly. He was crying silently by the time that Mycroft was finished, crying bitterly.

Deftly Mycroft twisted a clean gauze bandage around Sherlock's slender foot and slipped a tightly sock over the whole thing. The frown on Mycroft's face hardened, if at all possible as he carefully watched Sherlock bite back his cries of pain. Then, in an unusual display of affection, he swept the small lad out of the pillows and onto his lap. "You won't be able to walk on it for a few days." He stated blandly.

"I know." Sherlock replied just as blandly, holding back his tears and smoothing over the creases in his face.

Mycroft felt something suddenly catch in his throat. He didn't have to wonder what. It was the same uncomfortable feeling he had always felt around his little brother. _Caring is never an advantage. _He knew that well, but he couldn't stop that darned lump every time he saw his little brother in pain (or behaving really cutely but he regularly chose to forget about those times). Sentiment. It was unnecessary and unnerving so he just as quickly slid Sherlock back off his lap and stood up.

"Stay here," He ordered making his way to the door without looking back. "I'll go get you something for the pain." Sherlock didn't answer.

The door closed behind Mycroft and he took a shaky breath attempting to get rid of the lump. It would be so much nicer when he went back to Uni. He had started two years early at sixteen, just before Sherlock's sixth birthday. At Uni he had control, over basically everyone and almost everything, but at home, Sherlock had control. Without even being aware, Sherlock had control over him and he hated it.

It hardly took anytime for Mycroft to get past the strange feelings of brotherly affection and to retrieve the pain killer from the master bathroom medicine cabinet. When he got back to his room, Sherlock was curled around a pillow and sucking his thumb.

"Sherlock, stop that horrible habit at once, it is terrible for your teeth and quite childish." He commanded brusquely. Sherlock looked up at him from aquamarine eyes but didn't remove his thumb. Mycroft didn't ask again, it was pointless, the boy was stubborn. The pain medicine had a narcotic effect on the child and before long he was sleeping softly wrapped around Mycroft's favorite pillow. With a sigh Mycroft sat down beside him and opened Einstein back up.

He was more than relieved when the next day provided as escape from his uncontrollable brother. He was headed back to Uni and the real world.

* * *

A very long time in the future, after the brothers had plenty of time to sort out their personal love-hate complexes and make peace (not that they did, that would be to admit to caring) There came a time when they were somehow crowded back into the same house in the country. It was Christmas time and Sherlock and invited John and Mary. "It is for there sake." He drawled into his coffee and the kitchen table when his mother, Janine asked him why they had come. "They are having a rough moment in their relationship."

"Oh, I see!" she exclaimed and clapped her hands. "You want them to see a fine example of a loving marriage and work through their problems in the comfortable quiet of a country home. Oh Sherlock you are brilliant! I always knew you were!"

"Oh for the love of-" Mycroft exclaimed before walking out into the fresh air.

Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers together and gave his mother a pointed look, that she could interpret anyway she please, before following his brother outside.

Mrs. Holmes stepped into the sitting room and looked at the couple on the couch. They were not talking to the other and John was scrutinizing a picture that had been on the mantle. She decided it was about time to ease the tension in the room and maybe even get them to smile. Gently she took the picture from John Watson's hands and smiled at him before settling down between him and Mary. Neither of them minded very much at the moment, and they both liked the gentle-lady very much.

"Ah, wasn't he adorable?" she said softly touching the image almost reverently.

"That's Sherlock is it not?" Mary peered carefully at the infant caught in the middle of the picture.

"Oh yes," Janine answered longingly. "When he was still small enough for me to cuddle with him without him pushing me away."

"Really? He did that?" Mary asked looking sharply at the woman.

"Yes. Look at him, even as a child he seemed to look – to observe as he would say – rather than to simply see. But, we didn't really realize it until he was two."

John looked closer just like Mary was. It was true, the child in the picture had soft charcoal curls dusting around a pale face and two sharp bright blue eyes. He was sitting perfectly straight, the toys lay around him untouched as he stared intently at the camera.

"Awe, he is adorable," Mary cooed patting her own very large stomach.

"Yes, but he was awfully thin," Janine said quietly. It was true, the baby in the picture was uncommonly thin for a baby, by no means malnourished, but definitely not very chubby.

"He never had any baby fat?" Mary asked incredulously.

Janine looked wistful. "He didn't keep any of his chubby long. By the time he was two he was thin as a rail."

She put down the picture and picked up a photo album from the table. She opened to the second page skipping the first with was more pictures of the baby. The second page displayed several pictures of a thin scraggly looking toddler clutching a little blue blanket with his thumb in his mouth. Once again as in almost all of them he was staring intently at the camera, no smile of course.

"Here he is at two. We were just starting to take him to play with other children at this point and were beginning to discover that he was – still is actually, as you both no doubt well know – incredibly anti-social. He would find a corner, and sit down and watch.

"How incredibly strange!" Mary interjected.

"How incredibly Sherlock," John retorted.

Mary laughed breathlessly, "True. Oh, that must be Mycroft." Mary said eagerly.

"Yes," Janine smiled. "He refused to admit it, but he was very fond of his brother." Mycroft looked like he was around twelve and he had Sherlock in his arms. Both of them were stiff as a board and neither was smiling.

"Really? We are talking about Mister 'The British Government' still right?" John sounded positively shocked.

"John, Behave." Mary shushed him like the very best of mothers and he grinned slightly. That was a good sign.

"Oh yes, Mycroft thought him a complete idiot at first – Sherlock did not talk until he was three, whereas Mycroft was talking in full sentences by ten months. Sherlock hated being with other children, actually; he hated being with people in general. He didn't say a word for three years, and he refused to eat. Mycroft was certain he was a simpleton. But one day when Sherlock was three, I had a friend over and after she left Sherlock looked at me solemnly and quietly stated with the calmest assurance; 'Mother, that is a dreadful woman for you to have as an acquaintance. She cheats on her husband and spends way too much money on clothing despite not possessing any sense of fashion. Also she walked out with at least three of your silver spoons. You should consider not inviting her back.' I almost died of shock."

"I can imagine!" Mary gasped through her laughter.

"Really." John stated, certainly not an over impressive choice of words seeing as how it was becoming his word of choice in this unbelievable conversation. "That was the first thing he ever said?"

Janine nodded and shook her head. "Of course we couldn't cajole another peep out of him for days but he soon got used to the idea of talking. That is when Mycroft decided he might not be retarded, but rather possibly have average intelligence."

"Wait, you said Mycroft was fond of him," John stated again like he had to understand what language she could possibly be talking. It wasn't possible that they were talking about the same people here. Sherlock. Mycroft. No I don't think so.

"I remember this one time when Mycroft was in his fist year at uni, Sherlock had been playing pirates outside - if you can imagine Sherlock as a pirate - when he slipped on the fountain and cut his foot open. I wasn't home at the time but when I returned late that night and saw bloody footprints all over my white carpet I almost had a heart attack. I looked high and low for the owner of those little feet before I found him in Mycroft's room. They were both asleep on the same bed. Sherlock was curled against Mycroft's leg and Mycroft was leaning against the headboard of the bed with one hand tangled in Sherlock's hair. They were so adorable I had to snap a picture. Wait!" Janine leaped up and rushed over to the shelf where she opened a random box and pulled out a faded picture. triumphantly he held it out to the couple and sat back down.

"Well, I almost though you were making it all up!" John laughed under his breath and he stared at the brothers.

Janine settled back down and grinned like a child in a candy store. "Neither boy knows I saw them, and they have NEVER shown such 'care' towards each other ever again. I think they both find it safer to be distant. But, deep down somewhere in those stone-cold, calculating, sociopath hearts of theirs, I think they still care for each other very much.

John laughed again and leaned back pinching the bridged of nose between his fingers. "And just when you think you have the faintest idea what is going on in their heads." he left the rest unsaid but Janine readily agreed.

"Though I must say, I doubt either of them were be very grateful that I showed you this picture that they don't know exists. It will be our secret."

Mary crossed her heart with her finger and added a solemn nod for good measure.

John chuckled and handed the picture back. "Not a word. Shout's honor!"

Fin

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HAHA! There it is! My first Sherlock fic! Review please and thank you!

~Kiliana

PS: Thank you for the review to my 'guest.' I am from the US and do not know any more then I have learned through BBC shows. I think I may have fixed the 'Americanized' language.

Please, anyone feel free to school me in the jargon of Britain. As always I appreciate constructive criticism.

PAX


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